Читать книгу The Chaos of Chung-Fu - Edmund Glasby - Страница 5

THE CHAOS OF CHUNG-FU

Jack Murphy’s investigations into the disappearances were to lead him into a shadowy and dangerous world of Oriental horror, sorcery, and madness.

It was in a litter-strewn back alley in downtown Chicago that private investigator Jack Murphy first saw the poster. Damp and tattered, pinned to the wall of a squalid Chinese takeaway, it looked like something from a hundred years ago.

The evening was quite dark and it was raining heavily. Water ran from the brim of his hat and he pulled up the collar of his long coat before crossing over to take a closer look.

He flicked his torch on and shone the beam directly at the poster, grimacing somewhat at what he saw. For the poster was a flyer, an advertisement for a forthcoming theatrical event and one, which, judging by the images depicted, was not for the faint of heart.

Emblazoned along the top, in stark, slanting lettering was:

THE SORCERY OF CHUNG-FU

An evening of Oriental magic and mystery

Chung-Fu. Now there was a name he had heard whispered on the streets.

The image that dominated the garish poster was of a sly-looking Chinese man with a tasselled skullcap and an expensive, embroidered silk robe. Below him were a series of alarming, theatrical scaled-down drawings; a scantily-clad woman shown in mid-scream, strapped to a rack as a pendulum blade swung low; a grinning, hideous puppet-like thing, its dagger held aloft; a man cowering from two tigers; and, in the bottom left corner, another man, open-mouthed, vomiting a stream of spiders. Columns around which massive pythons coiled bordered the central theme.

There was a bizarreness to it that unnerved even him, filled him with an uneasy sensation, which sent a shiver through his body. Whether there was any connection between it and the rash of disappearances in this area that he was investigating he didn’t know, but as he had so little to go on, it was a line of enquiry he would keep open.

From the details he had managed to piece together, the disappearances had been happening for several years and there were some common features that made him think that there was definitely something sinister behind them. All of the missing were lowlifes: those social unfortunates that the police were not overly concerned with, the downtrodden demi-monde—vagrants, ladies of easy virtue, and drunks for the main part. And, had it not been for the disappearance of Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette—a local gangster with high-up friends, he doubted whether anyone would have bothered to investigate at all.

Murphy found himself reflecting on this as he studied the poster. There was a forthcoming show scheduled for a week’s time and, after confirming the venue, he decided it was a show he was going to attend. That being the case, he thought it prudent to see what, if anything, he could discover about this enigmatic Chinese showman and his magic show.

‘Big’ Teddy Maxwell, the head of the local mob, afraid that a gang war might be starting on his turf, was paying him good money and he wanted results. As things currently stood he had no other avenues of investigation, everything so far turning out to be dead ends.

Removing the poster from the wall, Murphy rolled it up and stuck it into an inside coat pocket. The rain was becoming heavier, drenching him in its miserable deluge. He stepped closer to the wall and reached for a cigarette, lighting it with a deft flick of a match. He inhaled, taking the smoke into his lungs before exhaling a cloud of blue smoke from his nostrils.

Some inner intuition, one that he had learned to trust over his years as a private investigator, told him that there was something highly suspect about this Chung-Fu, something that definitely warranted deeper investigation. Just what it was, well, that was something he hoped to discover.

With that thought, he hunched his shoulders and stalked, broodingly, back to his apartment, completely unaware of the pair of dark eyes that watched his every movement, tracking him with an intensity of purpose.

* * * * * * *

It was the sound of the creak of the seventh tread on the stairs that made Murphy look up from where he sat at the table, on which his half-empty bottle of cheap whisky rested. The sound of a careless footfall.

Immediately, he got up and sidestepped to his right, towards where his coat, and more importantly his holstered gun, lay. He was halfway there when the door burst open and an Oriental-looking thug rushed in, a knife in his hand. Clearly this was something other than a social visit.

The knife came flying and Murphy ducked so that it went clear of his head and juddered into the far wall. He fumbled for his gun, but the man launched a spinning kick that caught him high in the chest, knocking the air from him and sending him back. Toppling over a chair, he just had time to roll aside to avoid another savage kick.

Scrambling to his feet, Murphy raised his fists. A self-trained pugilist, he adopted a defensive stance, ready and more than willing to give his attacker what for. The man came forward, making a series of vicious swings, his piggy, close-set eyes filled with hatred.

He came at a rush. Murphy saw his arm go back as he made to bring down a chop with the side of his right hand. Shifting nimbly to the side, Murphy blocked the attack, biting back the agony in his arm. He then wrong-footed his attacker, grabbed him and, using his raw strength, swung him back towards the door.

There was a cry of pain as the two collided. The private investigator sprang forward, delivering a solid right hook to the unfortunate’s back. He briefly considered getting his gun. He was just about to, when the man sprang to his feet with the agility of a wild cat and leapt forward in an acrobatic move that took him by surprise. He tried to block the sudden flurry of kicks that struck him, forcing him back. The back of his legs struck the table. Reaching out with his right hand, he made a grab for the whisky bottle. Swinging it down he crashed it over the man’s head. Glass shattered.

Dazed and hurt, the Chinese man shook his head, trying to refocus. He recovered quickly and came at Murphy again, his hands weaving in deft movements before him.

And then there were hands at Murphy’s throat, ragged nails biting into the flesh at his neck. Fighting back the hurt, he jabbed a clenched fist into the man’s stomach, making him release his hold.

Uttering a curse, the thug staggered back, falling to his knees under the force of the punch. A tough and wiry opponent, he lunged forward, arms flailing, head down, pummelling into Murphy as he pushed himself upright, catching him before he could dispatch him with a hefty kick. Together they crashed back, colliding with a chest of drawers and falling to the floor.

Scrambling to his feet, Murphy grabbed his attacker by his shirt collar. He himself was then smacked in the stomach. There was a dull roaring in his ears and all of the wind seemed to rush from his lungs. A follow-up chop sent Murphy reeling back against the window, his head temporarily swimming. Like striking snakes, more blows blurred before his eyes, swings and jabs that he had trouble countering.

Murphy’s ribs and stomach ached and things were now getting desperate. He would have to resort to a bit of dirty fighting, the style he had learnt on the mean streets of Brooklyn where he had been raised. Catching hold of one of the man’s arms, he hauled him close, his other hand reaching out and grabbing a handful of unwashed, greasy hair. He pulled violently, ripping hair from his assailant’s scalp, before bringing the head down to meet his rising knee.

Howling in agony, the man tried to break free, smacking two quick-­fire jabs into Murphy’s ribs. Murphy held on, hauled his attacker to his feet, spun him around and drove him, headfirst, into the wall. Grabbing his stunned foe by the back of his collar, he repeated the act twice more before throwing the badly battered man to the floor. He was just about to finish him off with a savage kick when, to his surprise, he got to his feet.

Snarling his anger, Murphy grabbed him in a headlock. Applying all of his strength, he hoped to squeeze the life from him or break his neck.

Like a slimy eel, the other wriggled free, nipped behind Murphy and hacked two chops into his kidneys. Groaning his hurt, Murphy half-fell and reeled across the room out into the corridor. Warped and bleary images dashed across his vision. He shook his head and tried to focus. Suddenly a chair came flying. He braced himself as it cracked off his right shoulder. The force of the smash almost sent him careering down the narrow stairs.

Murphy’s implacable enemy somersaulted forward, landing nimbly on his feet.

Wiping away the blood that ran from a split lower lip, Murphy landed several solid blows with his right fist. He then dodged past the other, nipped back into his room and made a frantic attempt to get his gun. His attacker sprang on his back and the two of them made a bizarre shadow outline on the wall as they fought and grappled. Murphy tried to throw the other clear. More by accident than design he stumbled and, using his raw strength, he hauled the man free, dashing him, head over heels, out through his apartment window. Glass shattered.

The Chinese man fell past the fire escape and plummeted five storeys to the dingy street below.

Murphy looked down and saw the body, illuminated in the flashing red neon light of the late night diner nearby.

Then, before his disbelieving eyes, something truly unexpected happened. The body lying broken on the rain-washed street below exploded in a fire-cracker burst of streamers, flame, and smoke! The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted up from some fifty feet below.

* * * * * * *

‘Big’ Teddy Maxwell was lots of things, but he certainly wasn’t big—at least not in the physical sense. He was short and balding, clean-shaven and debonair, but there was a glint of menace in his eyes as he glared at Murphy. “What do you mean, he just turned to smoke?”

Murphy stood his ground. He was used to dealing with wise guys, having spent much of his life in the company of bootleggers and racketeers. “I’m telling you, that’s what happened. I threw him from my apartment window and then he just sort of blew up, like a dummy filled with fireworks on the pavement. By the time I got down there to check, there was nothing left but a pile of streamers and that smell you get after someone’s pulled a Christmas cracker.”

“Well I’m not paying you good money to go round fighting things that ain’t real. I want you to find out what’s happened to ‘Two-Bellies’, you hear me?” Maxwell turned to one of his goons who stood behind him; a thick-set ape of a man with a black handlebar moustache and a squint. “You ever heard of any of this rubbish, ‘Muscles’?”

“No, boss.” ‘Muscles’ shook his head,

“You’ve got to believe me,” said Murphy. “I don’t understand it. The only thing I can think is that there’s some connection with this Chung-Fu guy. Maybe it was some kind of fakery, Chinese magic. I don’t know. Anyhow, I’ve been lying low just in case someone’s got it in for me. Could be this Chung-Fu thinks I’m on to him.”

“Chung-Fu’s nothing but a two-bit pain in the ass. He thinks he rules Chinatown, but he can’t even run a laundry business. This magic show, I bet that’s just a load of baloney to try and bring in a bit of extra dough.” Maxwell cracked his knuckles. “Still, I think you should keep an eye on him. Last thing I need right now, what with those boys down in the south giving me grief, is for that damned slant to muscle in on our operations here. If he is holding ‘Two-Bellies’, then he may try and get some information out of him. But me and ‘The Bellies’ go way back, and I know he won’t squeal.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Murphy.

“I want you to do what I’m paying you to do. Find ‘Two-Bellies’. If you think that yellow son-of-a-bitch is involved, then find out and tell me.”

“Okay. I’ll see what this show’s all about,” Murphy replied, “but I might need a bit of support if things turn nasty.”

“Don’t tell me you need one of my men to hold you by the hand? It’s only a freakin’ circus show.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t get beat up by a dummy filled with Chinese firecrackers, did you?”

Disgruntled, Maxwell shook his head. “I’ll see if I can spare anyone. Now go, go watch the clowns.” He reached into a pocket and removed a dollar bill. “Here, the candy floss is on me.”

‘Muscles’ and some of the others chuckled.

* * * * * * *

Chung-Fu. The mere name had come to instill a certain terror in Murphy that now brought gooseflesh to his skin. And yet here he now stood, waiting in line with the forty or so others in the pouring rain outside the ramshackle theatre. There were many more posters stuck to the walls, identical to the one he had first seen a week ago.

The crowd shuffled forward a step, then another, a sign that the doors had opened. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Murphy moved forward, eyes scrutinising the sinister face of the Chinese magician. He sneered at it in an act of bravado and scratched the stubble on his chin. If he were the one responsible for the disappearances, and if it had been he who had sent that strange assassin after him, there was going to be hell to pay. He would have to be a damned good magician to avoid six slugs shot at close range. That was his intent, to catch him backstage and interrogate him after the show was over.

The entrance to the theatre had been done up rather tackily to resemble some kind of Chinese temple, with dragons and red and gold banners hung here and there. It looked cheap and uninspiring, and it was of no surprise to Murphy that many, if not all, of those in the queue were tramps, winos, and deadbeats. A pervasive air of sordidness prevailed, the smell from those waiting to go in adding to its overall unpleasantness.

Still, Murphy had frequented worse dens of inequity.

From the talk he overheard whilst waiting to enter, it became apparent that none had ever been to one of Chung-Fu’s performances before.

Murphy bought a ticket from the coolie hat-wearing usher on duty, paid a nickel for a bag of peanuts at the makeshift kiosk, and was directed to one of the doors through which the crowd was already filing. Now in the foyer, it seemed that everywhere he looked he saw more posters, some depicting forthcoming attractions, others highlighting stages of Chung-Fu’s none-too-illustrious career.

It was dark in the theatre.

Murphy found his place, about halfway down the decrepit flea pit. He settled into his uncomfortable seat, his sight virtually useless in the shadowy gloom. He ate a handful of nuts. Figures shifted in the darkness around him as others took their places.

Minutes passed, the constant murmuring of those around increasing the sense of trepidation that was slowly giving way to fear within his mind. His body felt stiff and cold. A tiny muscle in his cheek twitched uncontrollably. He felt as though the theatre had become filled with amorphous, muttering things, each hungry for his blood.

Then the music started. To call it music would be an overstatement, for this was a dreadful clanging clamour mixed with tinkling bells, clashing gongs, and beating drums; an infernal, diabolical din that grew from silence into a hideous cacophony. Thankfully it faded, only to be replaced with a mournful, dirge-like singing that seemed to rise like something dead and wailing from the theatre basement, where all manner of things could lurk. Like a dark, unseen tide, it quickly drowned out the hubbub from those seated.

Murphy patted the lump of his gun, thankful that he had it.

Spotlights illuminated the stage. A thick, red, moth-eaten curtain concealed whatever lay beyond. The music stopped.

Then came a voice, a strange ethereal voice reciting strange Chinese words that Murphy couldn’t understand. Accompanying this incomprehensible introduction came a shuffling, crooked figure from the right side of the stage. It was an ancient man with a long, wispy grey beard. He was dressed in a rough grey-brown cloak, a knobbly stick in his hand. His movements were arthritic and doddery and, nearing the centre, he stumbled and nearly fell over.

Some in the audience laughed.

The Chinese commentary stopped.

Murphy squinted. Was this Chung-Fu in disguise?

The old man raised his terribly wrinkled face. “Good evening and welcome.” His voice was wavering. “May I take this opportunity to thank you all for coming on such a miserable night. We have a host of entertainers this evening. Tonight’s first act features those manic midgets from Old Shanghai—Sammy Hung and his sons: Ling, Jing, Xing, and Weng. Then we have, all the way from the Grand Guignol Theatre in Paris, France, Monsieur Claude Giraudin. After his performance, you’re sure to be enthralled by the puppetry of Huey Labada.”

Huey Labada. Murphy sat up. He thought he had heard that name before somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.

“Tonight’s penultimate act before the main attraction is Madame Li Sung, the Empress of Escapology. And then, the one you’ve all come to see, the Master of the Macabre, the Chinese Conjuror, the Devil of Xiang-Shang-Po, ChungFu!”

With no further words, he shambled off the stage.

The curtain rose, albeit clumsily. The backdrop was a poor mockup of a dusty Chinese village street, dilapidated, ramshackle timber houses with red and gold banners hanging from windows and doorways. A large cart filled with marrows and pumpkins rested to one side.

For a time nothing happened and the murmuring in the crowd grew. Then, with the crack and bang of numerous fireworks a small Chinese dragon scurried out onto the stage, the feet of its operators clearly visible. It was a crude-looking thing of scarlet and gold, adorned with streamers, its head shaggy, its large goggle eyes wobbling, its mouth snapping. It weaved and danced for a few minutes before snaking off stage.

A moment later five midgets rushed out. The diminutive quintet cavorted, performing acts of none too great dexterity. With a hoot and a cry the entertainers leapt, somersaulted, and cartwheeled. One walked on his hands, presenting his fat backside to the audience. Clambering together, they then formed a human pyramid; a bizarre, fleshy effigy that held for a few seconds before toppling over.

A huge roar of laughter came from the spectators.

After this display of their acrobatic abilities three of them ran off stage and returned with huge guan daos—vicious looking Chinese pole arms—with which they fought one another, their attacks and parries poorly rehearsed. The other two produced hand axes with which they started to juggle. Every so often one of them would fall over or mistime a catch, often with bloody results. They would get a laugh all the same.

And then, seemingly over before it had started, Sammy Hung and his sons linked hands and bowed in unison.

“Let’s hear your appreciation.” The aged compère shuffled from the wings, clapping as he came. “Weren’t they great?”

“Utter rubbish!” shouted a tramp in the second row. “Pathetic!” He stood up and began making rude gestures at the entertainers.

Murphy glanced over, a wry smile on his lips. He agreed with the heckler’s sentiments, but—

Suddenly the lead midget rushed forward brandishing one of the hand axes. He looked around, his eyes wild, popping from his head. “What that you say?” he screeched.

Murphy stared dumbstruck as the crazed dwarf ranted on.

“You want this? You want this between ears?”

“I dare you, you damned—”

The hurled hatchet spun and flashed end over end, thudding with a meaty thwack into the heckler’s right shoulder. Screaming his agony to the ceiling, the unfortunate then began to push his way to the aisle. With blood oozing from where the hatchet lay embedded, the man stumbled to the end of the row when a second hand axe struck with deadly accuracy into the side of his head. The force of the blow catapulted him over and into the next row where he fell upended. His legs twitched for a moment before the body slumped down into the space between the seats.

There followed a stunned silence, a silence that was soon interrupted by the sound of the angry midget and his sons cursing and stomping off stage.

The curtain fell. Two stagehands rushed out with a stretcher and took the body away.

Murphy sat, like the majority of the onlookers, shocked and horrified at what had just happened. Good God! What kind of barbarism was this? Or could it just have been no more than a well-staged illusion, a part of the act? His thoughts seemed to be echoed by some in the audience as a ripple of uneasy laughter spread across the chamber. He watched as others left their seats, moving to the side aisles, either fearful that Sammy Hung would return and vent his wrath on them, or else in readiness to leave.

The doddery old man returned. “Well, that was something else, I’m sure you’d all agree. As for tonight’s second act, we are truly honoured to have with us an undisputed master of illusion. May I present, the one, the only…Monsieur…Claude Giraudin!”

The lights dimmed.

The curtain rose.

The haunting organ groaning of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor started up as clouds of dry ice billowed across the stage.

Murphy could see that the stage had been transformed into an eerie, moonlit, cemetery-like setting: hastily put up headstones, an old plastic tree, and a spike railing. In the middle, he could discern a caped organist with a top hat, his back to the audience, a large ornate church-organ before him.

The playing stopped and the seated figure turned around.

Thoroughly grotesque—his hair patchy and straggly, his face sunken and cadaverous—he bore more than a passing resemblance to Lon Chaney Senior’s portrayal of the Phantom of the Opera.

Removing his top hat with the flair of a true showman, Giraudin then walked over to one of the headstones. Like a graveyard ghoul, he perched atop it and stared out into the crowd, his long, spindly legs stretched out before him.

Murphy didn’t like what he saw. He gulped. This whole performance was becoming too strange for him. He thought he had mentally prepared himself for some degree of oddness, but this was surpassing anything he had ever seen before.

On stage, Giraudin rose to his feet and passed his hand over his top hat with a flourish. With a wiggle of his fingers, he plunged his arm inside and pulled out not a white rabbit but a severed head! It was that of one of the Hung brothers!

A loud cry of horror went through the auditorium.

Murphy’s heart lurched inside his chest and the man on his right vomited.

Giraudin grinned, his face like a skull. He looked at the head before throwing it into the crowd. With a blue flash, it vanished in mid-flight, drawing another cry from the spectators.

So it was just an illusion. Murphy settled a little. No doubt papier-mâché duplicates filled with fireworks. He was disgusted but impressed. This sure beat the petty card tricks and the ‘find the lady’ that was known to win a buck or two by fooling drunks in the bars around town.

A second midget’s head, a third, and a fourth were also removed from the hat. Giraudin studied each, at one point lovingly caressing one’s cheek, before throwing it to the audience. They all vanished as had the first. He turned and walked to the opposite end of the stage. Hat held in one hand, he raised his other arm before sticking it inside. This time he screamed; his face a portrait in pain. He pulled his arm free. Clamped on to his hand, its teeth around his wrist, was Sammy Hung’s head!

As one, the spectators screamed. Some, deciding they had seen enough, made for the exit.

Giraudin added to the screaming. Desperately, he tried to shake Sammy’s head free. The head fell back into the hat, which now lay on the floor, dragging the Frenchman with it.

Captivated by the scene before him, Murphy watched as the top hat slowly began to swallow Giraudin. This couldn’t be happening, his rational brain tried to tell him. It was magic of such a high calibre that it defied explanation. But that was all it was—a clever magic trick, performed by means unknown in order to befuddle and entertain the masses. This was something that he had never experienced before. He had always disbelieved in the reality of magic, in anything remotely supernatural—it had no place in his hard-bitten, well-ordered life. He dealt only with things that he could see, feel, talk to and, if necessary, shoot. Now, his mind floundered frenziedly, out of its depth, groping for something firm and sane on which it could anchor itself. Was it a trick? Some part of his mind demanded an answer.

Giraudin’s limbs danced in spasmodic judders as, like a constrictor snake with its prey, the hat began to expand as it drew him in. Blood poured over the brim. With a slurping noise, the stage magician was engulfed from head to waist. Somehow, he staggered to his feet, blood covering what remained visible of him—his lower half. He crashed against one of the headstones and fell to his feet.

Grimly, Murphy watched as Giraudin’s legs kicked as though he was trying to right himself once more.

Suddenly, with a nauseating slurp, the hat devoured everything bar one foot. A trouser leg and a well-polished shoe protruded at an odd angle.

Spotlights fell on the bloodstained hat. It sat alone on the stage, steaming and burping like some gorged, fat toad.

A disturbing minute passed.

Murphy stared, confused, dumbstruck and utterly disgusted.

Then it happened. Like a geyser, a torrent of blood and guts fountained out of the hat. The crowd screamed in shock and revulsion. Still the red spray came, covering the stage in its gory, lumpy soup. Had anyone been left in the front row they would have been drenched.

The top hat rested on the stage, Giraudin’s unmoving foot defying Murphy’s sense of reality. He had hoped it would move, disappear, do something, anything but lie there. If it had gone, he could have rationalised that there had been some hidden trapdoor or other concealed exit—some escape hatch into which the entertainer had gone.

Matters were made worse when a stagehand in a coolie hat rushed on and lifted the hat, foot and all, off the floor before scampering away again.

A disgruntled-looking man with a mop and bucket came on stage. Muttering darkly to himself, he began cleaning up the copious blood spill.

The lights dimmed and the curtain fell.

This had to be fake, Murphy told himself. It had to be. He had read in the papers about some of these shock-horror grisly shows. They were rated not by talent but on gore content; the bloodier the better. In some ways he supposed it was like the old Roman arenas—the crowd baying for blood. It made him sick, but he had to remain focused. Maxwell was getting edgy and unless he found out something soon about ‘Two-Bellies’ then Murphy’s own life could be in danger.

A spotlight fell on the stage, following the movements of the wizened host. “Well, that was something to tell the grandchildren about, wouldn’t you say? May I present this evening’s next act, Huey Labada!” He began clapping in a doomed attempt to get the crowd to do likewise before retreating offstage.

The curtain rose.

A man in a pin-stripped jacket, looking every bit an archetypal mobster, stood on the stage. In his left hand he held a Thompson submachine gun. Cradled in his right arm was something from a child’s nightmare. The thing was lumpy and potato-shaped. What face it had resembled a cross between a battered child and a drooling bulldog. It was dressed in an old-fashioned convict outfit complete with arrow-stripped markings, a cap, and a ball and chain manacled around one ankle. Whereas most of the body looked stunted and deformed, its arms looked like human arms and moved accordingly.

The theatrical backdrop was of a dimly-lit Chicago street. Sound effects included the wail of a police car in the distance.

“Alright you guys,” said the ventriloquist. “Listen up. I’m Huey Labada.”

“An’ I’m his sidekick, ‘Two-Bellies’,” said the dummy.

Murphy’s heart skipped a beat. He stared hard, trying to discern the dummy’s features. Was it just his imagination, or was there a vague resemblance between it and the photograph Maxwell had given him of the missing ‘Two-Bellies’? But how could that be possible? This grotesque thing was no larger than a five-year old child.

“We’ve got a great show for you folks, tonight,” said Labada.

“Have we?” asked ‘Two-Bellies’.

“Sure have. But first we’re gonna take care of that mug who works in the jewellery shop. The one who set you up and put you in the slammer.”

There ensued a long, drawn-out theatrical scene that involved Labada and his ‘dummy’ in a mock hold-up of a jewellers, the part of the shop owner being played by the little old man who had introduced all of the acts so far. The lights then dimmed and the backdrop altered, so that the images of shadow-puppets could be projected on to it. Whether this was done by cast members offstage or via some form of cinematography, it was hard for Murphy to discern. It was impressive nonetheless, and although not a Broadway production, the scale of it took him completely by surprise.

However, like all of the previous acts, it ended tragically and bloodily. For, in the final scene, Labada and ‘Two-Bellies’ were cornered by the police, the latter depicted through a combination of real actors and more shadow puppetry. There ensued a ferocious gun-battle, the sounds of the pyrotechnics and special effects deafening.

Riddled with bullets, Labada staggered dramatically to the front of the stage and collapsed in a pool of blood, landing atop the deformed dummy-thing.

Labada’s demise was followed by some hesitant applause, although by now the theatre had emptied somewhat, many individuals having seen enough.

Once more the curtain descended.

A riot of crazy notions swam darkly in Murphy’s mind. There was a feeling of sick apprehension in the pit of his stomach. His brain heaved and twisted with something he was unable to fully control or understand, as though something was tugging at his sanity. He doubted whether he could watch much more of this bizarre horror show. And then there had been that thing, ‘Two-Bellies’. It surely wasn’t coincidental—however was it the link he needed?

The old man returned. “And now for Madame Li Sung.”

The drapes were lifted, revealing a tranquil temple garden scene: fountains, topiary-styled hedgerows, and a distant pagoda. Faint chimes tinkled.

An exotic, tattooed Chinese woman in a purple silk kimono descended gracefully from the ceiling on invisible wires. At least Murphy assumed there were invisible wires. A stagehand then wheeled out a large cabinet, assisting the woman inside before padlocking it, turning it around to show there was no apparent means of escape at the rear. Then, with a puff of smoke, she reappeared at the opposite end of the stage, winning a round of applause.

Li Sung did a few more minor feats of escapology, contortionism, and acrobatics.

Murphy relaxed a little. This was more like it. A beautiful woman performing what he considered safe, normal trickery. It wasn’t quite on Houdini’s level, but it sure beat the violent, anarchic slapstick of the previous performances. He was far more comfortable watching this.

That sense of comfort evaporated when a sinister-looking guillotine was trundled on stage by her accomplice.

If the previous acts were anything to go by, Murphy had a bad feeling about how this was going to end. His suspicions were to prove right, for, after failing to escape from the locking mechanism which held her head in place, the blade sliced down—cutting through air, then silk, then flesh, decapitating Li Sung.

Accompanied by a splash of blood and much screaming from the audience, her severed head rolled to one side.

Down came the curtain.

Murphy rubbed his jaw. This Chung-Fu was one sick individual. Yes, it was all trickery—dummies and fake blood—and he bet that right now the various performers were backstage in their squalid dressing rooms, smoking cigarettes and removing their make-up, no doubt getting ready to hit the bars—but the man was still sick. This bloody production was testament to that. Looking around him, he could see that less than a dozen others remained in the audience, those strong-stomached ones who had chosen to stay to the end. And a few who were probably too drunk to move.

The old man returned once more.

“And now, for the highlight of tonight’s cabaret. With no further ado, may I introduce that master of Oriental magic, Chung-Fu.” He threw down his knobbly walking stick and raised his hands. Holding his pose, he began to levitate.

Murphy stared, intrigued.

Then with a bang and a flash of smoke and a roll of drums from some hidden orchestra pit, the old man cast off his tattered robes. A bright, almost blinding light shot forth, and when Murphy’s sight cleared, he saw that a mid-air transformation had taken place.

The old man was gone and another, much younger man, the man he had seen on the poster, Chung-Fu, was there. Dressed in a truly expensive silken robe of purple, gold, red, and black, and wearing his tasselled cap, he stared out, his eyes piercing. Tracing a mystic sign in the air before him, the magician conjured flames from his hands before descending to the stage. Strange Chinese words came from his mouth.

Shadowy snakes and tigers sprang into being behind the menacing figure, silhouetted against the curtain. And then it seemed as though the shadows detached themselves, spilling out to embrace the walls of the theatre, to encircle those within.

“What the hell?” muttered Murphy, staring around at the encroaching darkness. Over to one side he could see some other men getting ready to leave.

Fang-filled, monstrous shadow-shapes flowed and slithered. Like a voracious mould they seemed to spread and drip, flowing down walls and oozing across the stained, popcorn-littered carpet of the theatre. Some of the shadows seemed to fight each other, the larger, fiercer ones devouring the lesser ones.

None of this was real, Murphy tried to tell himself. A demonical miasma had fallen, and icy fingers crept up his spine, ruffling the small hairs on the back of his neck. Terror surged through him as he continued to watch the spreading of the ghastly shadows. This was sheer nightmarish horror and he knew it.

“Well gentlemen,” spoke Chung-Fu. “I see you’ve enjoyed tonight’s cabaret. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t still be here.”

A thickset man in the second row got up, fastening his raincoat.

“I’m afraid you’ll find that you’re unable to get out.” The conjuror smiled wickedly.

“What d’ya mean?” shouted the man.

Chung-Fu paced to the edge of the stage. “I mean this is the end. For you all.” The sorcerer pointed and stared.

Whether it was due to some form of hypnotism, Murphy couldn’t tell, but the man with the raincoat seemed to stop, become immobile.

“To some I am a devil. To others I am but Chung-Fu. Regardless, it is my place to prepare you for my next show. You’ve damned yourselves by staying and drinking in the bloodshed and the violence. You had the chance to leave, to follow your better judgement, but instead you chose to stay. And like those from my last performance, you will become part of my new act.”

“Not bloody likely!” Another man got up and made a run for it. Others screamed and clamoured to get out. This was now a stampede; a mad exodus of theatregoers desperately trying to get out.

All hell broke loose.

Snapping shadows flowed from the walls and, horrifyingly, Murphy saw one unfortunate swallowed whole, disappearing into a tenebrous maw. Gun in hand, he made a dash for where he thought the exit lay but in the poor light it was hard to be certain.

It was chaos. Screams and wails reverberated around the walls of the flea pit. Some were trampled in the side aisles. Another man was dragged, kicking and screaming, by a shadowy tentacle that pulled him against a wall. With unbelieving horror, Murphy saw the individual engulfed, absorbed by shadow. One moment he was there, the next, nothing but inky blackness!

Insanity threatened to take him. By some extreme mental effort, he managed to force it down, to focus on staying alive. He would willingly spend the rest of his days in the nuthouse if it meant getting out of this hell.

Then he and four others were at the doors. They were locked.

“Move it!” Murphy shouted, pushing aside one of the others and blasting two bullets at the lock. He then kicked the door open.

Brighter light struck them.

Then pandemonium spilled out into the foyer as several of the stagehands came charging at them. The first went down with a slug between the eyes. He fell and exploded—just like the goon who had attacked him in his apartment.

“Sweet Jesus!” shouted one man.

“Get out! Everybody out!” yelled Murphy, discharging another round, downing another explosive-filled attacker. He made a mad rush for the outer doors. Shadows and other horrors poured out after them, closing in.

Then the main theatre doors crashed open.

Three men, armed with Thompson submachine guns stood in the doorway, framed against the light flung from the street lights outside.

“That you, Murphy?” one of them shouted. “What the hell’s going on?” It was ‘Muscles’.

“Get outta here!” Turning, Murphy fired a few more shots and ran to join them.

There followed a yammering of submachine gunfire as the hoodlums riddled the foyer with bullets. There were screams and shouts as dark things swelled and vanished, bubbled forth and retreated, ebbed and flooded. More of those strange, explosive-filled ‘men’ joined the carnage. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder.

Murphy’s mind darkened, unwilling or unable to take in any more of the unfolding madness. He was vaguely aware of a pair of strong arms dragging him clear of the theatre.

* * * * * * *

Maxwell wasn’t buying any of it. He stood, his back to Murphy, gazing out the window onto the rain-washed street below.

“But it’s true, boss,” said ‘Muscles’, “there were some weird things going on. I saw it.”

“Listen to what your man’s telling you,” added Murphy. “That goddamned Chinaman’s—”

Maxwell spun round to face them. “What? The Devil?” He strode over to his desk. “And that somehow he’s turned ‘Two-Bellies’ and Huey Labada into freakin’ glove puppets? Come on, what kind of idiot would believe that?” He pointed directly at Murphy. “Nobody makes an idiot outta me. Nobody! You got that?”

“Sure, I’ve got that.” Murphy nodded. He was still trying to come to terms with the horrors of the show he had seen the other evening. Now, in the relative sanity of Maxwell’s office, with the grey light of morning shining in through the window, he tried to tell himself that some of it had been but stage trickery. Some of it—that was the problem. If only he could convince himself that all of it had been nothing more than elaborate theatricals effects.

“But what about the men that exploded, boss?” It was ‘Muscles’’who raised the question.

Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. That could be anything. Maybe they weren’t real to begin with. Maybe you just thought they were real. Dummies or something.” It was clear he didn’t have a good answer for this.

“And ‘Two-Bellies’?” asked Murphy. “Okay, maybe that thing I saw wasn’t him, but surely you agree it’s highly coincidental his name being used? And Labada, I remember now. He was one of those that helped spring ‘Two-Bellies’ out of Bridewell, wasn’t he?”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe he and ‘Two-Bellies’ were pals. Maybe they went to one of these shows together. And, even if you don’t think that spooky Chinaman has supernatural powers, I’d say it still suggests that something happened to them there, at one of his shows. It’s just too coincidental for their names to be used and for one to appear as a mobster, the other a jailbird.”

“This is getting nuts. But maybe you’re right.” Maxwell frowned. “Well, let’s not get the cops involved. That’s the last thing we need right now.” He looked Murphy dead in the eye. “What do you suggest? I mean, you’ve seen this man. You claim to know what he’s capable of.”

“Well, that’s just it. I’m trying to forget just what he’s capable of. Madness and magic, what more can I say? If the Devil does exist, I’d say he’s living somewhere in Chinatown, Chicago.”

“Right, I’ve had enough of this.” Maxwell reached into a drawer and withdrew an automatic. He looked to his henchman. “Devil or not, he’s made a big mistake in muscling in on my patch. Get the boys together. Tell ’em that we’re going to sort out a little business in Chinatown. Tell ’em to come armed. And get Larry ‘the Lips’ on the phone. He’ll know where this slant lives.” He clicked home a magazine. “It’s time I paid this Chung-Fu a visit and put him straight about who runs this freakin’ town.”

* * * * * * *

Four cars filled with hoodlums rendezvoused on one of the wide streets opposite the Dow-Tung Restaurant. A typical pork and noodles joint, it was frequented by all manner of unsavoury types: immigrants, railroad workers, dockhands, and bums. This was where Larry ‘the Lips’ had said Chung-Fu held out.

“You ready for this, Murphy?” asked Maxwell, looking out of the car window at the sleazy establishment across the road.

“I don’t know.” It was an honest enough answer. He had seen things the other night that had dragged his sanity to the verge of breaking point, stretched it like toffee. And who knew what fresh terrors awaited them now? Just how effective would bullets prove against the terrible magic of Chung-Fu?

“Let’s do this.” Maxwell got out of the car.

More car doors opened, and a dozen men in long coats, their weapons concealed beneath, stepped out and followed him.

Murphy walked along behind them.

Pushing aside an old Chinese man who was smoking something suspicious from a long clay pipe, Maxwell went up to the front door of the restaurant and kicked it open. He then fired a shot in the air. “I’m looking for Chung-Fu,” he shouted.

There was immediate silence. Confused, wrinkled faces turned to look.

“I know some of you speak English, so I’ll ask once more. Where’s Chung-Fu?”

No one answered.

Maxwell shot a man nearby. “I’ll keep shooting till someone tells me.”

The crowd inside grew hostile, but their hostility turned to fear when they saw Maxwell’s heavies gathered in the doorway, their Tommy guns and double-barrelled shotguns out. Murphy peered from within their ranks.

Maxwell pointed his gun at another man. His heavy-handedness got results.

“I tell, I tell!” The man raised his arms.

“Where?”

“Chung-Fu, he leaving for China. He being taken to shipyard. He decide he live here no more. He take man with two bellies with him, some others and he go.”

“Two bellies?” Maxwell snarled. “Two-Bellies?!”

“Little man in crate.”

“Never mind a crate, I’ll put him in a box six feet under if he’s joined forces with the Chinaman.” Maxwell aimed the gun. “Which dock?”

“I think he say Six.”

“Are you going to go after him?” asked Murphy.

“You bet I’m going to go after him. I hate leaving loose ends. Nobody crosses Teddy Maxwell and gets away with it.” The mob boss returned his gun to its holster and turned to his men. “Some of you remain here in case this son-of-a-bitch is lying. You see Chung-Fu, you shoot him like the rat he is.” He looked at Murphy. “Right. You and me are going to the dock. There’s a shipment bound for China that ain’t gonna get there.”

* * * * * * *

“Why do you think he’s getting out?” asked Murphy as the car, driven by one of Maxwell’s men, sped for the St. Lawrence docks. Evening was fast approaching and it was getting dark and foggy.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Maybe your visit the other night got him rattled. Maybe he thinks he’s going to get busted. I’ll teach him. What say you, ‘Muscles’?”

“You got it, boss,” came the laconic reply from the back seat.

“And what’s this about ‘Two-Bellies’ being in a crate?” asked Murphy.

“Maybe he can’t afford a second-class ticket.” Maxwell grinned.

Their surroundings became increasingly derelict and threatening. This was a foreboding, heavily built-up area that attracted some of the worst of human society. All manner of lawlessness took place here. Especially when, like now, the sun was going down.

Murphy felt uneasy. Had done so ever since Maxwell had declared his intentions of pursuing Chung-Fu. Inwardly, he couldn’t help but think that it was the wrong decision, that nothing good would come of it, that it would only pile evil upon evil. Better to let him go and take his weirdness back to the Orient. He was now convinced that there was something unnatural about the other, something that went well beyond the normal and the understandable. What he had witnessed he could no longer, despite his best attempts, assign to the realm of trickery and illusion.

“Right, ‘Weasel’. Look out for dock Six, should be getting near. I remember a few years back sending some loser to the bottom with concrete shoes on near here.” Maxwell laughed.

The driver slowed down. In the fog it was hard to make out anything. The dockyard was silent. The great hulks of berthed ships and container vessels formed murky shadows.

‘Weasel’ noted a sign. “Dock Six.” He turned the car around and drove slowly in the direction shown.

Before them loomed a massive Trans-Atlantic steamer. A few dockhands moved around, loading crates and boxes of provisions and necessities. Apart from that there was little other real activity.

“They’re loading her up. Looks like she’s getting ready to depart in the morning,” said ‘Weasel’.

“Yeah. In which case we’ve got to get to Chung-Fu now. Pull over.” The car came to a stop. “Right, leave the talking to me.” Maxwell got out.

Murphy, ‘Weasel’, and ‘Muscles’ got out.

Purposefully, the mob boss strode towards one of the workmen. “Any passengers boarded yet? A strange-looking Chinaman? Might have had a few others with him, including a big fat guy with a scar down the left side of his face.”

“There were a couple of Chinese guys came just over an hour ago. Queer-looking folk. Didn’t say much. Told ’em they’d have to wait till the foreman got here in the morning afore we could load ’em aboard. They weren’t too happy, so we sent ’em down to Loading Bay Thirteen. Why are you asking? You a cop?”

“Yeah, I’m a cop,” Maxwell lied glibly. “They’re shipping opium and guns out of the country. We gotta confiscate that contraband. Bay Thirteen, you say?”

“Yeah. Just along there a bit.”

“Thanks.”

Maxwell, Murphy, ‘Weasel’, and ‘Muscles’ headed off in the direction given. It was strangely eerie in the deserted, evening docks. Everything was shadowy, gloomy, filled with a haunting apprehension.

The loading bays were huge, warehouse-type structures.

A cold chill crept into Murphy; a damp feeling that seemed to leak into his soul, filling him with fear. He found himself breathing heavily, mist forming before his face, fogging his vision further. There was evil here, of that he was certain, an evil that went far beyond Maxwell’s thuggishness, an evil born of age-old wickedness, an evil that could be considered otherworldly. Unlike the others, with the possible exception of the dim-witted ‘Muscles’, he had experienced that evil. He knew just what it was capable of. And that knowledge made him starkly afraid, filled him with a soul-draining dread.

“Right,” Maxwell stood before the warehouse door. “I want ‘Two-Bellies’ alive. I ain’t too bothered about the others, although if you can take ’em alive, do so.” He gave the door a push.

The four of them crept inside.

It was dark and gloomy. Reaching for a light switch, Maxwell flicked it on.

The building was huge. It was filled with crates, boxes, and all manner of containers, some bearing stencilled lettering regarding either their provenance or their destination, all lit up by rows of overhead light bulbs.

There was movement up ahead. Shadowy figures crouched behind some of the containers, clearly surprised at this intrusion.

“Spread out,” Maxwell ordered.

No sooner had his order been given than a gunshot shattered the silence, a bullet ricocheting off a nearby wall. They all immediately took cover, ducking behind crates. Two more shots rang out.

“Seems Chung-Fu’s here and he means business,” said Maxwell, turning to Murphy. Gun in hand, he crept forward, taking cover behind a row of crates.

Stealthily, Murphy edged his way to one side. His nerves were tingling, although this was with a fear that he was able to cope with. He had been in numerous situations like this—bullets whizzing over his head and fighting thugs more than willing to end his life. This was normality, as far as he was concerned. Creeping forward, using crates for cover, his index finger clammy on the trigger of his .38 revolver, he moved almost silently, sneaking around the side, hoping to gain the advantage by getting behind the shooters.

There were two of them, Chinese in appearance, although Murphy would have bet a month’s wages that they were more of those firework-stuffed mannequins he had encountered before. They were crouched low, their guns at the ready. He doubted whether he could take out both of them before they were to return fire. Then he saw ‘Muscles’ creeping from one side, his Tommy gun in his hands. He signalled for him to hold his ground. This would have to be handled carefully.

Ducking low, Murphy edged a little closer.

And then the Chinese men were shooting. Whether at Maxwell or ‘Weasel’, Murphy wasn’t sure. They were standing, making good targets and he knew now was the time to open fire. Aiming for a second, he squeezed the trigger, the recoil hammered at his wrist. Bullets flew.

One of the men went down, exploding against a chest-high heap of crates with a loud bang. ‘Muscles’ opened fire on the other, a storm of bullets blasting forth in a fiery burst, tearing the remaining man apart. He too exploded.

And then a crate over to one side burst open and Chung-Fu burst on to the scene. Only this was not the virile, powerful Chinese sorcerer Murphy had last seen at the weird theatre, but rather the ancient, wrinkled, cadaverous old man who had introduced the acts. In fact, his appearance was many times worse than that. His skin was grey and corpse-like, almost mummified. His face was ghastly: red eyes glaring, crooked lips drawn back over protruding fangs. His hands were extended claws, the nails long and talon-like. There was a supernatural horror about him that filled all of them with fear.

“What the hell?” exclaimed Maxwell, rushing up and discharging a round of bullets at the hideous thing.

The bullets had no effect whatsoever.

‘Muscles’ opened fire, emptying a drum of submachine gun bullets. And then ‘Weasel’ was shooting. Crates were splintered and blown asunder. In the resulting chaos, Maxwell fell forward, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He had been shot three times in the back.

Murphy turned to look. Crawling forward, a smoking revolver in its hand, came ‘Two-Bellies’—the deformed, dummy-imp in the convict costume. What manner of perverse sorcery Chung-Fu had used to transform the fat gangster into this foul abomination, he had no idea, nor had he any desire to stay around in order to find out. He pulled back, eyes staring as Chung-Fu rose into the air. A dark cloud began to form around him. His eyes became lambent, red fires of pure evil.

The terror-shadows began to grow, snuffing out the light.

This was an enemy Murphy knew could not be beaten. This was an ancient, demonic thing, no doubt an entity that had existed for centuries, its power derived from the horror it instilled in others; a vampire of sorts. He turned and ran for the exit. ‘Weasel’ was already there, his face chalk-white, his body trembling.

There came a scream as something terrible befell ‘Muscles’.

The thing that had been Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette fired, bullets whining past Murphy’s head.

“There’s some dynamite in the car,” shouted ‘Weasel’. Together he and Murphy dashed outside into the natural dark of evening and ran to the parked vehicle. Several curious dockhands, alerted by the gunshots, watched from a safe distance.

Heart pounding fiercely, Murphy stood trying to gain his breath, waiting as ‘Weasel’ flung open the boot and removed several sticks of dynamite. He handed them to Murphy before taking out some more.

Murphy glanced back at the warehouse. Hideous, unnatural things were happening in there within its shadow-filled interior. For an instant, his vision blurred, veiled by the falling rain. He blinked his eyes clear. Then horror burst out anew as he saw the demonic thing that stood in the doorway of the warehouse, grinning at him with a leering smile. The features were indistinct, half-visible through the black, suffocating shadows that billowed out around it.

Then ‘Weasel’ was lighting fuses and throwing his sticks of dynamite.

An almighty explosion destroyed the doorway of the warehouse. A second and then a third blast went off, the powerful detonations throwing fire and wood skywards. A wall of fiery heat struck Murphy as he hesitated before hurling his explosives. The two men then pulled back, waiting, hoping that nothing would emerge from the conflagration that now raged before their eyes. Thankfully, nothing did.

They then got in the car and sped off, leaving behind the madness of Chung-Fu and the bodies of Maxwell and ‘Muscles’.

* * * * * * *

Hang-Lee, the government appointed investigator, examined the poster that had appeared overnight on the wall of the rundown cinema. There had been a rash of disappearances in the Poor Quarter of Beijing.…